


Laid Across

by ignited



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-19
Updated: 2007-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:51:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignited/pseuds/ignited
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> He will save his brother. He’s just not there yet.</i> Sam tries to make up for Dean’s stay in the hospital—‘cause hospital food? Sucks. Tall freakin’ little brother trying to pull the touchy, grabby crap? Surprisingly, doesn’t suck as much as Dean would think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laid Across

He’s worn out and haggard, thin hospital gown tight and then loose as he shifts uneasily in his sleep. Dean’s got dark circles, hair flat and mussed, can’t keep food down—can though, just doesn’t want to, wants a good double cheeseburger rather than mushy peas or wobbling Jell-O or “whatever the fuck they serve here”—only he can’t have that.

Dean needs to stay healthy, needs to—he’s going to _die_ in a month, weeks, less. And Sam’s going to save him.

Positive, he _will_ , no question about that.

Says it just as much when he sits next to Dean, on his bed, gets a shaky curse breathed out as he stirs awake.

“Get your fucking ass off my bed. There ain’t any room, Sammy.”

“ _You’re_ taking up all the room,” Sam says, wriggles until he’s lying back on his elbows, shoved against the edge of the bed next to Dean, awkward and bony.

Dean’s gown puffs out as he wriggles, blurts, “Dude, the hell is your problem? I’m not— _hey_ , you mind telling me why my dying’s got you all touchy feely all of a sudden—actually, don’t, I don’t wanna know. Ow. Your ass is _heavy_.”

Sam cocks an eyebrow, saying dully, “Don’t overexert yourself. You might break something.”

Dean groans, dryness in his voice, tired eyes, saying, “Shut up and go get me some food.”

“That’s what the nurse is for.”

“Yeah, Nurse Winchester, up and at ‘em,” Dean says, nods sharply and winces as Sam slowly pulls back, moving to sit and then stand up. He continues, slower, “Get me something from the vending machines.”

“No, Dean.” Sam reaches forward and snatches the remote, wiggles it in his fingers as Dean waves a hand lamely towards him, gesturing. “You need to get _better_. Junk food won’t help with that.”

“But it’ll make _me_ feel better,” Dean says, strains his voice on the ‘me’ before he settles back against the pillows.

Sam stares at the curve and bend of Dean’s chin and throat, the way the fabric pulls and loosens against his chest, blankets over his belly and legs. His hands feel sweaty and he puts them in his pockets, fingers flex. Like he’s itching to grab at Dean, to shake some sense into him, to fix and pull at his gown and blankets.

He doesn’t, though, just leaves the room and digs into his wallet, imagines all the candy he could buy from the machines and slip them into Dean’s mouth, on his tongue.

 

 

-

 

Sam doesn’t leave, not yet. Soon enough he’ll go and save his brother, soon enough he’ll make a few phone calls ( _Dad, never picks up, it’s an emergency_ ) and does a lot of research.

He will save his brother. He’s just not there yet.

Sam comes back into the hospital room, later, wraps his lanky body around Dean’s in the bed, for comfort as much as annoyance, grin that he keeps to stave off the bile in his throat, how the pain threatens to push up and overflow.

It lasts all of ten seconds, quiet, pained and cramped; two bodies for one small bed, strong thighs and legs that jostle and push as Dean nods awake, elbows Sam in the belly.

He’s going off on another tirade when Sam sees it: tanned flesh of Dean’s thigh, blankets and gown covering only _just_ , rumpled mass of fabric that Sam pulls at. He rolls his shoulder muscles and angles closer; Dean’s breathing hitches, eyes widen and settle to half-lidded again.

Dean grunts, soft noise, strangled and higher when Sam bends and kisses Dean’s exposed collarbone, the line of his neck, the softness of his chin and jaw. His hand slips underneath Dean’s hospital gown, ‘slips’ more like _shoves_ ; Dean half-hearted and groaning at Sam’s body pressing tight against him, pushing and prodding.

Sam noses Dean’s neck and chin, runs his tongue and lips along the stubble there, roughness and dryness to his skin from the stay, from the weakness—from the...no, he can’t _think_ that, won’t let words wrap around it. But there’s still energy in Dean now, always is, the way he groans deep as Sam wraps a hand around his cock and starts fisting, slow, long pumps.

Sam doesn’t talk. He only noses Dean’s chin and jaw, tongue swirls that turn into kisses. He knows better than to tell Dean, _I got you_ , or _I’m gonna save you_ because he _knows_ and then—he doesn’t. He’s not sure of the outcome. He doesn’t know where Dad is, he doesn’t know where to start to get Dean’s heart working properly again and—

 _Damn_ , he can’t stand hospitals.

Dean moans, tries to angle his head to kiss Sam but Sam doesn’t move, doesn’t let up his actions on Dean’s throat, _you’re like a friggin’ vampire_ , Dean murmurs, scrunches his face.

And then Sam bites down, a little nip, pulls back sharp like he’s not quite sure what he’s doing, like he’s waiting for Dean to tell him to fuck off.

Dean doesn’t though, freaking _doesn’t_ , says, roughly, “C’mon already, you’re losing me here, Sammy.”

His breath comes up short when he says it, fidgets a little, didn’t quite mean for _those_ words—Sam’s hands fumble, then as if invited, egged on, he switches up and pumps faster, kisses and sucks at the extra flesh of Dean’s throat. Feels himself grinning, a little madness slipping in as Dean jerks his head and shoves his mouth down, against Sam’s. Rubs his mouth wet and pliant against Sam’s own, messy and spit.

Dean comes sticky and hot against Sam’s hand, blooming pool of wetness on his hospital gown. He licks his lips and elbows Sam, weakly, saying, “You gonna sleep it off, get your own bed.”

Sam rolls his eyes and swipes one of Dean’s blankets, almost grins at Dean’s grunt of annoyance.

“Do you need me to tuck you in?”

Dean flips him the bird, squirms in the blankets to get comfortable while mumbling about cutting off certain little brother’s body parts.

 

 

-

 

A few days later and things are back to normal—took on a Reaper and won, Dean’ll be fine, that’s all that matters—and they’re at a convenience store, Sam poking at the little toys and tourist trap junk near the registers. He’s buying the usual stuff (lube, condoms, _okay_ , so they’ve ran out this month) and Dean has half a Snickers bar shoved in his mouth as he dumps a load of candy and two car magazines on the counter, nudges Sam.

Sam pulls out a couple of bills from his wallet, cocks an eyebrow. “All of that?” Dean nods. “You’re supposed to pay for it before you eat it, Dean.”

Dean mumbles a response laced with chocolate and caramel, unintelligible. They’ve paid for the stuff and they’re out the door later, Dean saying when his mouth’s clear, “I’m makin’ up for lost time. Did I ever tell you how much I hate hospital food? ‘Cause it blows. They never get your order right either.”

“You gonna file a complaint?” Sam asks. He gets a small punch to his shoulder, rubs it before adding, “I can _see_ you’re making up for it.”

He waves a hand in a weighing motion around his face, sneaks a quick few pats on Dean’s belly before he hightails it to the passenger side of the waiting Impala.

Dean narrows his eyes. He points at Sam, following after, says, “Yeah, you better shut the hell up because we’re still gonna go get some goddamn real food, Sam.”

Sam scratches the back of his neck, corners of his mouth twitch, stifling the smile that’s threatening to emerge. Dean gets into the car with a huff, leather creaking, fidgets angrily before he turns on the ignition.

There’s color to Dean’s face, sun bronzed creeping in after that deathly pallor. Sunlight on his face, too, as he grimaces and smacks Sam’s thigh, hard.

“You can make all the cracks you want, but just remember I’m the one that’s gonna fuck you but _hard_ into the mattress later, so stuff it. I am _perfect_.”

“Keep on telling yourself that, Dean. You're a special snowflake.”

He’s ready to respond, indignant, when Sam presses his mouth against his, muffled response, tongue pushes in. Bites Dean’s lip before pulls away, couple of inches, faces too close, almost uncomfortable but it just _isn’t_.

Dean grunts, says, “Doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” but he’s got this _grin_ , and Sam’s not sure if it’s the kiss, the food, or the sex, later, that’s got him smiling.

Doesn’t matter. He’s okay with all three.

END


End file.
